


The Song of Silence

by violette



Category: The Song of Achilles - Madeline Miller
Genre: Alternate Universe - Afterlife, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Death, Fix-It, Greek Underworld, Happy Ending, I promise, M/M, POV Achilles (Song of Achilles), POV Third Person Limited, Post-Canon, Sort Of, Tears, achilles and hector being war bros, fuck pyrrus, mention of other characters, only speaking characters are tagged, post death, the characters are already dead so i didn't tag it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-12
Updated: 2019-11-11
Packaged: 2020-05-01 21:22:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 5,823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19185742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/violette/pseuds/violette
Summary: When Achilles takes his last breath, he smiles.But when he next opens his eyes, it is not his lover he sees, but his own corpse, face down in the mud, a betrayal of all his mother wanted for him. He spares no more than that thought, before looking around. There is one face he longs to see among the crowd. It is the one face that is not there.How cruel of the fates, to keep them apart, even in death.





	1. silence like a cancer grows

**Author's Note:**

> Achilles POV of his death and the afterlife. My version of a fix-it. Achilles yelling at everyone doesn't really change what happened, but it makes me feel better about it.  
> Lots of angst, but a happy ending because I'm a sap and my heart couldn't handle it without one.  
> ~gonna be about seven, maybe eight chapters total~

When Achilles takes his last breath, he smiles. He has craved death in the way no man should, no soldier, no warrior. Certainly no hero. In the way that only a lover, lost and alone, can feel. Since the moment of Patroclus' last, Achilles has been counting his breaths, desperate for them to run out as well.

Hector is dead. It is time to be with Patroclus again.

But when he next opens his eyes, it is not his lover he sees, but his own corpse, face down in the mud, a betrayal of all his mother wanted for him. He spares no more than that thought, before looking around. He sees the faces of the men who've come to avenge him, Myrmidons with faces of grief and rage, and the other Greeks, with sorrowful panic in their chests. The great _Aristos Achaion_ is slain, what hope have they now? And then, there, the sparks of rage, ignited by the look in the eyes of his men. Paris makes himself an archer, a coward's weapon for a coward's hand. He, and all of the Trojans, will pay for this, for taking their hero. His death will not be in vain.

Achilles sees this and looks away. He cares not about the purpose of his life, or his death, beyond that he may see Patroclus again. It is the one face he longs to see amongst the crowd. It is the one face that is not there.

How cruel of the fates, to keep them apart, even in death.

Achilles does not scream. He does not wail or shake, his voice does not bellow with rage. He is calm, like the waters of his mother's ocean. He will see Patroclus soon.

He drifts silently, as his body is washed clean. Odd how little he cares for its handling, when he spent so long holding tight to Patroclus' in grief. He knows now, that his love was not there, but spares no embarrassment at the embrace. There's no need, he will be reunited with a form he can touch soon.

The body, for it is no longer his, not in a way that matters, is placed on the pyre. His men mourn; his peers, the other kings and lords, do not. Achilles claws uselessly at his mother's arms, begging her to see him, to gather his ashes before they are lost to the wind. Curses her divinity for water and not this.

When Odysseus sees to it that his ashes are laid with Patroclus', Achilles spares a thought for the man. It isn't thanks, not truly, bitter resentment lodged in his throat at the notion. But it is as close as he can manage.

 

And then his son arrives.

 

Achilles has never regretted an action more than laying with the boy's mother. Passions of youth be damned, this mongrel declaring himself king has no right taking his name. Letting Patroclus don his armor did not hurt as much as this, as much as the echo in his mind of the pain on Patroclus' face when he learned of Deidamia. Of all the ways he has forsaken his _Philtatos_ , creating the thing that would lead to his abandonment is the one which grieves him most. A fire ignites in is soul, as great and burning, consuming, as the name of his son. _Pyrrhus_ . Betrayer _._

Howling, scratching, clawing, Achilles bounds for the wretch's head. It is no son of his who stands there, betraying the wishes of his father, and the ways of the dead. Achilles feels as though he could fight the entire war again, with only his hands, for the rage that he feels. Hatred enough to rival the river Styxx, vengeance enough to quench the Phlegethon. Tears enough to fill the Cocytus.

As night falls, and plans are settled, Achilles falls to his knees and begs. Begs the gods to sway the hearts of his men, the fates to switch his lot for Patroclus', to send his love on and leave him there, if one must stay. Pleads for the gods of spirits to hear his wails.

He does not feel the sand against his knees, nor the tears against his cheeks. Nor does he hear any answers to his prayers.

How cruel of the fates, to deny them even this.

When his name is carved into the stone, and the rituals pass, a force comes to take him away. He screams and kicks and fights. But Achilles is air and thought and can do nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes that last line is directly from Madeline Miller (with just a name change). I claim absolutely no ownership of it, I just loved how beautiful it is, and it fit perfectly.  
> -  
> the Styx is known as the river of hatred  
> the Phlegethon is the river of fire  
> the Cocytus is the river of wailing


	2. in restless dreams I walked alone

He awakes on the shores of the underworld, for all that he never slept. The Acheron gurgles and spits, hisses, nearby. The ferryman's boat is lodged into the bank of black sand, wood groaning as if the tree's soul were still alive to feel the pain of the icy waters.

A voice speaks behind him. "Come, _Aristos Achaion_. Your way has been paid." The ferryman, Charon. His voice is deep and bottomless, echoing around the open space, commanding, final. Not in the way of men on the field, but in the way of the gods of death. Patient. Inevitable.

Achilles does not turn to face him. "No."

"No?" Charon's voice booms, but does not change tone. Curious, but not lenient.

Achilles' bones rattle inside, remembrance of an ancient, primal fear. But his muscles stand stiff. "I will not go."

Suddenly, Charon is there, standing in front of Achilles. The spirit towers over the man, dark robes flowing. "Why?" He has a face, but for all that Achilles looks, he cannot see it.

It matters not. "There is nothing for me there. My Patroclus will not be coming." Tears coat his throat. He let's them, closes his mouth with half a thought to let it drown him. But he is already dead.

"So you would stay here, among the restless dead, waiting for their turns across?"

"Yes." The word comes out before Achilles gives it the thought to. It is no less true.

There is silence for a moment, and Achilles looks down at the sand, unable to hold his head.

"None but the fates can say how long you will wait." Charon's voice is slow and does not reverberate around the space anymore. If Achilles were romantic, he'd think it sounded sadly resigned. The man knows better than to think any deity would have affection for him. "But when you are ready, there will be a seat for you."

Achilles raises his gaze to the deity and nods. He knows this for the kindness it is. "Thank you." It's all he can manage through the clog in his throat.

With that, the spirit returns to his boat. For the first time, Achilles takes notice of the spirits around him, ethereal as he, but solid in this plane. They give him a wide berth, even those dead before his conception, for the one The Ferryman calls _Aristos Achaion_.

Achilles sees a pile of boulders near the river and sits.

 

He ignores the other spirits. Those who do not know his name are not concerned with him either. For his part, Achilles doesn't feel anything. If tears stream down his cheeks, he is unaware. There's a hollow pit inside his chest, his heart buried with his love, chained to the upper world, to languish in the heat of men's cruelty.

One brave soul, or stupid as it were, dares to complain to him of the wait. Dares to accuse the great hero of greed, for refusing his ride where the others must pay, with either coin or time. It isn't the spirit’s fault his family was too poor to spare any coin for him. But for this hero to flaunt his wealth and good fortune-

Achilles grabs the man at the throat and throws him into the river. He screams in burning pain, cursing the gods with screeching breath. A few other spirits rush towards the edge to aid him, to pull him from the river, but Achilles growls. "Do not complain to me of fortune. Be grateful, you wretches. You will have the chance of passage. Not all are so lucky."

The spirits back away, leaving the drowned spirit to claw his way to shore himself. He falls down against the sand and shakes, voice hoarse from screaming.

Achilles finds a new rock to sit on.

 

From time to time, Achilles sees his men pass by. They are glad to see him, eager for a word of praise from their great leader, their _Aristos Achaion_. Achilles allows them this, cannot bring himself to take more from his men than what they've already given. He stops them from telling him about the war, about the brat who calls himself son. They of course, all know better than to say _his_ name, for fear of grieving their lord.

Achilles watches them cross, glad that his men have continued performing the rites of the dead. He would give up anything in the world to see his love again, but is glad that no others befall such fate. The other Greeks pass by, and Trojans too. He nods at them if they pass, but otherwise only engages the Myrmidons, and only briefly. He hears whispers of Hector waiting here, somewhere along the shoreline, same as he. But he does not go searching.

Achilles sits on his rock and watches and waits. The sky far above, lined with rolling clouds. The water laps against the sand, rhythmic, lulling, a false comfort. The cavern is large and endless, and yet he feels hemmed, old animal instincts sensing the rock walls and spires that he cannot see around him. Shut out from the fields of pleasure and pain and forgetfulness.

He dreams of the centaur's mountain, of the forest and the cave and the fields where he trained. He wonders what Chiron thinks of him now, if he is disappointed in his student, or feels sorrow for a son. He hopes that no one has told him, that for the centaur at least, his story ends with a youth going off to war, full of courage and honor and light. A story that stops in the middle, and never truly ends.

He sees _his_ face everywhere he looks. In the churning waves, in the rolling clouds, in the mounds of sand. In his dreams, running, sitting, playing, fighting at his side. Always in arm's reach.

He does not sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some versions of the myth say Achilles is transported directly to Elysium, and I've read a bunch of fics where that's the case, but I just couldn't get the idea out of my head that he would hate to be there without Patroclus, and if he'd had the choice, he'd very much refuse to move on as much as he could.
> 
> It's common in several myths that if you didn't have coin to pay the ferry, you had to wait 100 years to cross the river into the underworld. Meaning that there is some sort of waiting area on the other side of the river, and that there'd be souls who died long before Achilles was born who are still waiting. So it's not totally out of the ball park for all souls to have to go past the river, and that Achilles might refuse to go. Myths differ between whether it is the Styx or the Acheron, but most say Acheron, and that's the one I like.
> 
> The Acheron is the river of pain.  
> Other Rivers (not mentioned in story):  
> Lethe - river of forgetfulness  
> Oceanus - (not to be confused with the Titan) river that encircles the world and it marks the east edge of the underworld


	3. people writing songs that voices never share

After a time, a spirit comes to sit beside him. It takes him a moment or more to notice, head too lost in the clouds, in swirling images and dreams of the man he longs to see. The spirit says nothing, content as well, to sit in silence.

When Achilles finally looks down, it is the ethereal form of Hector that he sees. The Trojan is sitting proudly, shoulders square and jaw firm, gazing over the horizon like a general overlooking the battlefield, confident his men will win. And then Achilles blinks and the royal posture of Hector is no more.

Instead, Hector looks a shell of himself. His form is mended and whole, as if never dragged by chariot, but his eyes are sorrowful, cold, face haggard and worn. It is the face of a man who has lost much in his life—all but his honor. And this is where it’s gotten him.

Achilles feels nothing. Not pride in seeing an enemy struck low, nor comradery for a soldier brave as he. The rage has long since past, swallowed by the hole that is his loss.

The two soldiers sit together as the clouds pass and the waves lap against shore. It is not peaceful, for neither are yet at peace, but it is not tense either. It is nothing.

Finally, Achilles manages to ask, “Why did you not pass?”

 “I wait for my wife. She has yet to pass through.” Hector looks down at the sand his feet are buried in. “And you? Why do you wait? Surely the  _ Aristos Achaion _ has coin for passage?”

There is no air left to leave Achilles' empty lungs. “My  _ Philtatos _ is not there.”

“The one who bore your armor?”

A sprinkle of rage burns in his chest, but sorrow quenches it, the smoke lodging in his throat. “Yes.”

Brow quirked, posture turned towards the Achaean. “But he died before even I?”

His heart aches. “He will not be coming.” Tears in his eyes burn, burn, waiting to be shed.

“I am sorry.” And Hector is. He knows not the pain of such a thing, but he dreads it, oh how he dreads it. If the Greeks win, if his wife is killed, will there be any funeral for her? Will her body be placed on a pyre, will her ashes be buried, name carved in stone? Will he wait here for eternity, as Achilles does?

Hector turns away as tears trail down the other’s cheeks. He does not ridicule the man, does not revel in his weakness. He too, has tears to shed.

Another moment passes in silence. Achilles’ face is once again placid, tears dried from his cheeks as if they were never there. 

“I am sorry for dragging your body behind my chariot.”

Lips curled up, almost in a smile, Hector wants to laugh. “I am sorry for earning such wrath.”

Lips curled up, almost in a smile, Achilles wants to laugh too. What lives they have lead, indeed. “If it is recompense, your brother, Paris, shot me with an arrow to the chest.”

“With the help of Apollo, no doubt,” Hector says, a bitter tinge to his tongue. “Still, it is good to see that he returned to the battlefield again.”

Achilles hums and says nothing of cowards who start wars and do not fight in them. He too, knows a thing about that.

“Tell me,” Hector starts, and for once his voice trembles. “Do you know what became of my son? Does he still live?”

Taken aback, Achilles looks over the other man, whose heart so clearly shakes with fear, but— “I did not know you had a son,” —Achilles cannot quell it.

Again, silence. Achilles turns towards the waves again, gives the man space to have his tears. He has never thought about the idea of children, never thought to pass on his name, his legacy. Pyrrhus was a mistake, a disgrace in more ways than one. Something Achilles never thought of, until it was too late. He wonders idly if  _ he _ had wanted— but brushes off such dangerous thoughts.

“Tell me about your wife,” Achilles says. He could not give the Trojan comfort, but he could give him this.

So Hector does. He spins tale after tale, from wooing his wife, to the birth of their son, to the way she looked when she laughed. Andromache was beautiful, perfect. He longs to see her again.

And then Achilles speaks of his love, of their days in his father’s palace, their time with Chiron on the mountain, their trysts beneath the stars. He tells of their time in the war, and all the lives owed to his lover’s skilled hands. He spoke of his compassion, his love and grace, and his determination. Achilles told it all, every heartbreak and every triumph. Until at last, he came to the end, where his love was taken from his grasp.

Hector does not offer another apology, and neither does Achilles. They don’t need it. This is what they need, a person and a chance to tell their stories, to weave songs of joy and grief, honor and weakness, and most of all, love. They curse the war together, the foolishness of mortals and gods alike, for their hands in it. They see each other as men, as soldiers, as kings. As equals.

It isn’t enough, nothing ever will be, but it is something.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By most accounts, Achilles and Hector were a lot alike, both the best warriors on their respective sides. The Illiad is all about what it means to be a hero, and it focuses mainly on these two to answer that in various ways. Despite one going crazy, both dying, and one's side ultimately losing, both are considered heroes according to the ancient Greek view of things.   
> The Song of Achilles does a lot to unravel it further and actually draws light and importance to some of the more....unheroic things that happened. That's one of the reasons I love it so much.  
> ~  
> That being said, Hector and Achilles are really just poor smol beans who get swept up in this clusterfluff of a war and are trying really hard (for the most part) to do their best because of honor and integrity and stupid stuff adult stuff. Hector is probably the only one who (on a completely platonic level) could understand what my bby is going through. They'd be the best war bros if anyone ever gave them the chance, so dammit I did


	4. my words like silent raindrops fell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay you guys are just gonna have to go with me on this one, it's strictly for myself

More time passes, and the two sit beside each other silently, no more words to share. At peace with the waves and the clouds and the sand. Hearts laden with grief, souls begging for rest.

And then, a hooded figure appears in front of them, arms clutching a wrapped bundle to their chest. The figure is too large to be human and too permanent to be dead. 

“Hector, son of Priam and Hecuba. Come forth, and receive this.” It speaks with the voice of a god, depthless and ancient; though hushed, as if in a whisper—as if such a mighty being could ever be so diminished. 

Numbly, Hector stands, and the bundle is unwrapped. Inside lay a child, an infant too young to stand, form ethereal such as they. Hector gasps, and grasps the child to himself. “My son! Astyanax!”

The child’s spirit giggles happily, small, fat fists clutching his tunic. 

“How? How came his death? Is his mother here? Where is Andromache?” Hector’s voice rises, gaze darting about frantically, looking for the spirit of his wife.

The god takes off their hood, revealing a youthful face framed by dark curls. Yet in her eyes lay something ancient, knowing. The power of a goddess. “I am Angelos  _ katachthonia _ , daughter of Hera and Zeus, sister of Eileithyia, goddess of childbearing. My sister was present at your son’s birth. Andromache yet lives, but this, her son was killed by Pyrrhus, son of Achilles Pelides, dashed to the ground at the moment of victory.”

Achilles curses. Would his offspring’s cruelty know no end? There is no honor in taking the life of a mere babe, regardless of its parentage or possible future exploits. 

“So it is done then, the war is ended?” Hector asks.

“And the Greeks are the victors.” Angelos says. “My mother despises you Trojans, has hated you from the moment of your brother’s insolence. She is content to let the last of the Trojan dead wander the world alone.” Achilles’ lungs freeze. “But Eileithyia was fond of your wife. When Andromache pleaded for the gods to spare the soul of her son, my sister performed his rites herself. She asked that I escort him to you.”

Hope blinks to life in Achilles’ chest once more, dangerous and frightening in its fragility. “Goddess,” he starts, “forgive me my arrogance, but may I too beg your favor? My love, P—”

“I know of whom you speak.” The voice is louder than before, sharp, the voice of his mother when annoyed. Achilles bows. Before he can utter an apology, the goddess resumes, whispering and rushed again. “I am sorry,  _ Aristos Achaion _ , but I cannot return him to you. I am of She of the Underworld, and cannot return to that realm. Even if I could, my mother would strike me down, for ways I have wronged her.”

“Could Eileithyia, your sister, do so?” Angelos and Achilles both turn to Hector, his son against his chest, small fist tangled in his beard. “I dare not ask the goddess for more than she has already given, but if there is a soul worthy, it be his.”

Angelos sighs, such a human motion for a god, her overwhelming presence shrinking with it. Just a minor goddess, with no dominion for herself. “I am sorry, but this too, cannot be. Eileithyia has fled from Hera’s wrath, hiding with others of our kin. It will be long before my mother’s temper is quelled.”

Achilles’ heart falls. Angelos raises her hood once more. “I am sorry, Achilles Pelides. For all that this is, in part, my realm, I am powerless.” 

With that, the goddess is gone.

How cruel of the fates, to dangle something poisonous as hope in his grasp.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay. okay so. I know it's weird and super unrelated to anything. but like. when I reread the end of TSoA, I came across the mention of the baby dying, and it made me super emotional because I realized that there's no one really left to do the baby's rights and the Greeks wouldn't do it, so the baby would never move on and how do you even deal with that? and the scene of Hector and Andromache and Astyanax is suuuper cute and I just couldn't deal with any of it. so, so I had to fix it 
> 
> Eileithyia is the Greek goddess of childbirth who is mentioned in Circe (which is seriously so beautiful, 100/10). when looking her up, I came across her sister, Angelos (or Angelia), called katachthonia ("she of the underworld"). Her myth is kinda wild and not well known but totally fit what I needed, so I borrowed her
> 
> Next chapter is more back on track. I think there's gonna be 3 ish left? maybe 4 we'll see. Thanks for sticking through it!


	5. and echoed in the wells of silence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back! Sorry it's been so long since the last update, I got a job! I'm officially a librarian! Woooo!
> 
> Anyways, sorry this chapter is short, the next will hopefully be better

Hector offers to stay with Achilles, to accompany him in his grief, but the Achaean convinces the Trojan to move on, if only for the sake of his son. The two depart, and Charon nods to Achilles before setting course for the otherside.

Achilles is once again alone with his pain.

 

The last of his men drift by, those who died in the final siege. He does not speak to them, but allows them to find comfort in the telling of their lives, their deaths. How the great Odysseus came up with a grand scheme, how they fought bravely ‘til the last. How the parties roared in triumph, despite the dead. Still, none dare mention the name of Achilles’ grief.

And then a young maiden arrives. Her hair is dark, and tied in the Trojan way. Her bearing is that of nobility, yet she is dressed in the tunic of a concubine. At first, Achilles pays her no mind— just another girl, dead for a trophy, something his lover despised. Achilles thinks of the girls he saved through another’s hands, of Briseis, the one who began it all. He feels a twinge of regret that she could not be saved, but it is buried beneath his pain.

—and then she walks up to stand in front of Achilles. All is silent.

“Are you the one they call _Aristos Achaion_?” she asks, bitter anger biting her tongue. He nods. “I am Polyxena, daughter of Hecuba and Priam. I was killed in your honor.”

Blood coats Achilles’ throat, choking him.

 

The princess and the soldier talk. He holds her in his arms in the way of an older brother, strong and comforting in the way of Hector. He lets her cry, sob, tears coating his tunic as she rails against the fates and against Pyrrhus. He assures her that the boy was wrong, he is only saddened and further grieved by her death. That he’d have spared her, like he did the others, if he could. She is the first person he has held since his lover’s corpse. 

She is no less dead.

Achilles comforts the girl with knowledge of her brother’s passing, and of the babe’s spirit returned. He has not seen Priam pass through, but Charon will tell her so. When she’s ready, she heads to the shore. Charon again looks to Achilles before setting off. 

He is still not ready.

 

More time passes, but it is lost to the lapping of the waves. A couple of his men drift through, but he does not remember their faces. His head is filled with the sound of the waves, like an urn of blood rattling around his skull. Another spirit comes to sit next to him, and Achilles is quite through receiving guests. 

He turns to look, and sees Phoinix sitting beside him, weathered and gray. Achilles embraces the man who raised him, and is surprised when Phoinix returns the gesture.

“Hush, child. I am not angry with you. I have never been.” 

The blood in his throat is replaced by tears, pressed closed still, though easier to wrench open. “I am sorry.”

“I know, Achilles. I know. But why have you not gone?” 

Achilles straightens, but does not answer. 

Phoinix seems to know the answer anyways, patting his shoulders. “Ah. I am sorry, my king. But I was not able to convince your son to change his mind.” True sorrow echoes in his soft voice. He too had loved the adopted son of Menoetius, remembers their time as boys at his feet, listening to his old stories.

“It is enough that you tried.”

Phoinix clears his throat. “That is why I wished to speak with you. Your son has arrived here as well. Pyrrhus is dead.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Iliad doesn't actually cover Achilles death, so there's a few different versions. In one, Achilles is comforted by Polyxena after the death of Patroclus and tells her the secret about his heel, which her brothers then use to attack and kill him.  
> It's Euripides (the dick) who comes up with the version of Achilles' ghost coming out and demanding the sacrifice. Polyxena apparently was a willing sacrifice, as she didn't want to end up a slave, so she asked Odysseus to reassure her mother. In this version, her "virginity" is massively important to her "purity", which she values more than her life apparently.  
> That is fucked up. Don't let anyone ever judge you by whether or not you had sex. That's stupid.  
> Anyways, in other versions, she simply commits suicide after the war.  
>   
> either way, I have lots of emotions. Achilles (in Miller's version) sure as hell would never want her to be sacrificed  
>   
> next chapter: i go off on pyrrhus


	6. fools, said I, you do not know

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #fuckpyrrhus

Achilles, blessed by the gods to have strength and speed greater than mortal man, rises to his feet and stomps across the sand. Rage fills his heart, the memory of blood boiling in his veins. This is what he’s craved from the moment his name was carved in stone, from the moment his son appeared on Trojan shore, the same rage he felt when he learned of his lover’s demise. 

Spirits flee out of his way and Phoinix dares not follow, all too well aware of the demigod’s wrath. Until finally, there is only one soul before him, red hair dull and faded, the form of a man but the face of a child.

“Father!”

 

Heart flinching, Achilles bellows, “You are no son of mine!” Fists clenched, veins throbbing along his arms.

Pyrrhus scoffs, a haughty sneer, befitting a child king. “Of course I am! I am Neoptolemus, called Pyrrhus, son of the great Achilles Pelides, king of Phthia. I am he who slay Priam and won the war. I am hero of Troy, and best of the Greeks!”

Hand wrapping around the boy king’s throat, Achilles lifts his spirit in the air, feet dangling, eyes bulging at his father’s strength. “You are nothing!” In a swift, graceful motion, Achilles throws him to sand with the strength and precision he had hefted spears at his enemies. The air holds the tension of a fierce one-on-one brawl to the death in the midst of a raging battlefield.

They are alone.

Pyrrus lays wide-eyed in the sand—for all that his spirit lacks a body to feel pain, his lungs lack need of air, he is dazed. Before he can move, Achilles is upon him.

“You are no son of mine, no hero, hardly a king! You are a boy with a man’s greed and devil’s soul. You are a tyrant and a murderer. You forsake the ancient laws and spill blood in my name. You are worthless, honorless!” His voice spits, venomous, burning, toxic. The sound of the furies’ whips, Cerberus’ growl. Anger and pain enough to flay a person’s very soul.

“I am  _ Aristos Achaion _ !” Pyrrus screams, struggling to rise in the shadow of his father’s angry form. “That title is mine by birth and by blood and by deed! I am heir to your legacy, and all that comes with it!”

It is Achilles’ turn to scoff as he leans back. What foolishness this boy is, to bark like a mad dog, fighting tooth and nail for a bone too large for its maw. 

He laughs. It is an ugly, humorless thing, full of pity and scorn and hatred for himself and his scion. O’ what his youthful mistakes have wrought.

He turns to meet eyes with Pyrrus, still struggling to stand, to hold his own weight. Achilles’ eyes are glossy, seeing through Pyrrus, into his soul, and even farther past into something else. The boy cannot bring himself to look away. Shadows darken Achilles’ face, his once bright light hidden.

“As you are so enamored with my legacy, you may have it,” Achilles says, cold and echoing, haunted. “That of a broken man whose greed drove him to ruin and despair, of whom nightmares are told. Of a man who betrayed the best thing he ever had and lost everything in return. A man who deserved the mud where his body lay. That is the legacy I have earned by my own hands. And now you may add to it your sins, all the blood you have let outside war, for nothing more than your own greed. Let the gods judge you as harsh as they will I. For that is the legacy you have given yourself.”

Achilles makes to walk away, eyes still unseeing, seeing too much. 

Pyrrus finally lurches to a stand and calls out, voice that of a child playing at cruelty. “Is that why you refuse to move on? You are afraid of your own judgement? You are no king, no  _ hero _ . You are a coward!”

Achilles whirls around to face his son once more. “I wait for the man I love! The man  _ you  _ doomed to an eternity of pain and suffering, of loneliness. When you betrayed the laws of the dead, you betrayed my soul to eternity here, forever on the banks of sorrow, unable to move on.”

“But he was nothing! A slave, a worthless blight—”

Achilles has never moved so fast in his death. Possibly even his life. He doesn’t feel the pressure of skin giving under his thumbs or the familiar concave of a crushed throat, the weight of the bone breaking beneath. Blood does not pour forth, the boy does not choke on his own life essence— _ a fitting irony _ — his eyes do not burst from his skull. 

Both men are already dead.

Achilles does not notice. His eyes gleam, green suddenly a toxic color, burning. His voice is raw, animalistic.

“He was everything! They may have called me  _ Aristos Achaion _ , but he was the best of the Myrmidons! It was he who won the war. Who saved what is left of our souls through his kindness and honor.”

Achilles looks down at the sand and finally drops Pyrrhus to the side, a piercing, throbbing pain in his chest, like a thousand arrows entering at once. “He was the best of us all.”

And with that, Achilles walks away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> someone please tell me if this is too ooc for achilles. i just had lots of emotions and idk if it's still fitting or not. hopefully the cadence of the previous chapters is still there.
> 
> also please please tell me if i didn't do a good enough job at yelling at pyrrhus or its clunky or something. or even if you just didn't like it. this chapter is pretty much why i wrote the whole story, but now i'm hella nervous that it's not actually good. so like, criticism is appreciated y'all
> 
> lastly, there's gonna be one or two more chapters left after this one. it will end happy i promise. those chapters just aren't written yet, so it may be a couple weeks before the next update
> 
> love y'all. thank you so much for the comments and kudos and for reading!


	7. the vision that was planted in my brain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> still remains / within the sound of silence

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> that feel when the tags say "fix-it'" and the author gives you angst instead.....oops  
> sorry guys! but I love you!

Achilles walks. 

His ears ring, yearning for sound so great, they make their own. Monotonous. Droll. The same sound repeating, over and over. At once great and cacophonous; at once barely there. Achilles, who’s heart once ached with song, fingertips calloused by strings, can find no melody, no rhythm. His fingers now scarred by swords and spears and shields. His heart now scarred by that which he cannot name.

Achilles walks.

Ash fills his lungs, sulfur burning his tongue. The air is heavy and wet, pressing. A battlefield in the middle of summer rain. The ocean set ablaze. His throat, dry, cracks, shrivels. Sweat adorns his brow. His ribs are a cage, a vice - his chest motionless.

Achilles walks.

He looks but he does not see. Clouds hang in his eyes, white and milky, obscuring the rivers and the rocks and the ground that he has forgotten exist to be seen. 

Achilles walks.

His mind is empty, an aching, cavernous void, screaming without sound.

Achilles walks.

                                And then he falls.

Face down in the sand, grains pressing against his eyelids, scraping, scabbing, raw. 

He lays there for a while and does not think. The world fades away to the ever-present mist of his mind. His anger, searing rage and fierce pride, has gone out. A coal once burned, crumbles, a formless pile delicate as the wind and half as thin.

Time does not have meaning. Nor does place or feeling or sense or sound. Nothing exists.

 

 

Until it does. The voice of a god, bottomless, echoing, patient. Inevitable. “That is no way to live, _Aristos Achaion_.”

With strength he doesn’t feel, Achilles sits up, finds his back to a large stone. “I am already dead.” He lets it carry his weight.

Charon, god of the underworld, appears in his vision, face still formless. Achilles' arms and legs have begun to feel much the same.

“That is _enough_ ,” The Ferryman says, voice electric, booming. Achilles stares mutely up at him.

There is a small part of him which begs to ask _why_? Why does the god care about Achilles’ grief? Why should he listen to a being who knows nothing of love or heartbreak? Another part aches to yell and scream and curse, curse the gods and the fates and men. 

Ultimately, he does nothing.

“You act as those bound to the Mourning Fields.”

Achilles raises his eyebrows. Wants to ask again, _why?_

The god growls, huffs, black smoke billowing out of black robes as he stands over the mortal, eyes glowing. _A god’s anger._ Instincts take over and Achilles bows his head, body alight with energy, awake in a way he hadn’t known he was ever asleep.

“Should you lose yourself to grief and fade, your spirit lost to join those in the field, you will forget the one you love.” Achilles eyes widen. “And in doing so, condemn him to death a second time.”

Achilles heart stops. It doesn’t need to beat, not anymore, but still it burns, scorches, sears. Enough to melt ore and forge blades. He struggles to his feet, using the stone to help him stand. “ _No._ ” His voice is small, scared, childlike. His bones ache to their marrow, tears like acid on his cheeks. “ _I will not forget_.”

Charon leans back, stares with depthless eyes at the once prince as he trembles. Then he nods his head and points to the stone. Achilles finally looks down at it, seeing detail for the first time.

It is his grave, the one with only his name and murals of bodies left in his wake. It is the pinnacle, the symbol of his grief made manifest. It is what binds him to one place and his lover to another.

“Patroclus,” Charon says, once again only The Ferryman. “Remember his name.”

The name burns in his ears, the one he has not brought himself to say, to think, has kept from his and others’ lips. But finally, he is made to hear it. To think it. _To feel it._  

“Patroclus.” Achilles says. The name tastes like figs on his tongue, the sound curls around his lips and around his heart.

 

 _Pa-tro-clus._  

 

Charon nods. “Let go of your pain, your grief, lest you lose your love as well.” And with that he goes.

Achilles stares at the stone, at his name that does not change, the scenes of his destruction. With a deep breath and closed eyes, Achilles turns his back towards the grave and once more leans against it. 

When he opens them again, he sees _him. Patroclus_. Sees him as he was the day they met, young and youthful and vibrant. His eyes alight at Chiron’s teachings. Cheeks smiling wide as they played on the beach. Perched, head against knees as he watches Achilles train. Breathless, running alongside him. Stitching wounds closed, changing bandages, saving lives. Sees him grow into the form of a man, confident and brave. Filling out armor he was never meant to wear. 

He sees Patroclus’ face when he promised to help Achilles become the first hero both famous _and_ happy. 

The memory is bittersweet, like wine, on his tongue. He cares no longer for fame or riches or glory; he has felt enough of the grief and regret they bring. 

But simple happiness — the joy on his Patroclus’ face in the morning when woke by kisses, the melody of his laugh, the taste of him on his lips — that is what he craves.

The clouds threaten to press in again, chanting tales of all his past wrongs, all that he’s done or did not do, all that he’s lost.

But Achilles holds tight to that image in his mind, of his Patroclus, his _Philtatos_ , his love, smiling, happy, _alive._ His heartsong reborn, made of the sound of his laughs, his cries, his groans, the sounds of them _together_. He holds tight to the image and the song, and with all his strength refuses to let go.

The clouds surge forth, obscuring him in darkness.

  
  


And then.

 

 

 

_In the darkness, two shadows, reaching through the hopeless, heavy dusk. Their hands meet, and light spills in a flood like a hundred golden urns pouring out of the sun._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR ALL THE KUDOS AND COMMENTS!!!  
> i've had some bad writer's block and work's been crazy. and honestly i didn't know where to go with the story because i didn't want to leave it where it was because the whole point was for it to be a fix-it but then it got angsty but like good angst? so then it felt finished but i didn't want to leave it there. so i was super conflicted.  
> but after seeing all of your comments and the number of kudos and everything i finally had the energy and the mindset to keep going with it. like i get emails for every comment and i've kept them all and reread them a bunch and finally i was like imma do this, i know what to do. so honesty, seriously, deeply, THANK YOU ALL ♥♥♥  
> ***updated 12/28/19 with just a few grammar and spacing changes.
> 
> but also like. i wrote this two hours ago and am so excited to share so i've only read it through like twice instead of letting it sit for a few days, so yall gotta let me know if its okay or if i got typos or anything like that
> 
> also, this is not the last chapter! i promise! there will be at least one more to give them a good reunion, and maybe another after that for final loose ends, but yeah. not the end!


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